


Closet Revenge

by Amariel



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-28
Updated: 2020-02-28
Packaged: 2021-02-28 05:07:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,409
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22938373
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Amariel/pseuds/Amariel
Summary: Revenge is a dish best served naked in a broom closet. HP/PP, DM/PP. A small side order of slashy subtext. Written a very long time ago for a challenge where slashers tried to write het fics. It didn't quite succeed.
Relationships: Draco Malfoy/Pansy Parkinson, Pansy Parkinson/Harry Potter
Kudos: 17





	Closet Revenge

The intensity of his gaze burns a hole in her back. She feels like a butterfly, trapped on a pin in a collector's case.

She's dancing with Terry whose lips are moving and she realizes he must have been trying to say something to her while she has been trying to shake off the feeling of those staring eyes. Green eyes, in a shade of colour that reminds her of the death curse. She has only seen that chilling flash of green once, last summer when her grandfather put down one of his old wolfhounds. But it's not something she is likely to forget in a hurry.

Terry's lips are moving again. He's got something green between his rather large front teeth.

"Pardon?"

He repeats his question in her ear, a little louder this time. This time she answers.

\- Yes, one of my brothers went to Durmstrang. No, the other was in Slytherin. Yes, almost all of my family has been in Slytherin, since the sixteenth century. You absolute moron, she adds silently. The dance just goes on and on and she's thinking that a flobberworm would be more exciting company than Terry. Probably.

During the whole dance, those green eyes follow her every movement. She feels uncomfortable and irritated at the very gall of the despicable twit. She wishes Draco was there to say something demeaning to him, pick a fight; make him look away, look at something else. Why her? Aren't there enough Gryffindors to ogle?

She feels naked. It's not like he has any reason at all to stare at her like that…not any reason at all trying to picture her naked. Except that he has, and probably is. It wasn't even two weeks ago.

She twitches her shoulders like movement could throw off the memory of that night. Damn Draco who conveniently chose to forget all the locking spells he probably could do perfectly when he was three, just because he likes to make people uncomfortable.

There are small steps leading down into the deep tub in the Prefect's bathroom. It was well after midnight when they sneaked away from the dungeons. Giggly and more than a bit dizzy thanks to a small gift Blaise procured to lighten up the evening. The kind of gift that makes the sound of little bells ring in your ears, time slow down and the brain swirls softly in tune with the grey clouds of smoke disappearing up into the dark recesses under the ceiling of the Slytherin Prefect's bedroom.

Draco lit up like a Christmas tree when he realized what was inside the silver box in Blaise's hand. He told Blaise he wished his grandmother had left him useful things like that. Blaise said a little dryly that Draco's own grandmother had left him a fortune in galleons, which certainly must be much more useful.

"Look, the crest even got a snake on it!" Draco took the slender silver pipe from the box where it had been resting on green velvet.

"It's her family crest, she came from one of the Old Italian wizard families, supposedly related to the Borgias," Blaise said. Draco nodded and smiled, but it didn't quite reach his eyes; as he never likes it when someone points out relations to ancient and feared bloodlines, except when he can claim a nobler heritage himself. Vain sod, she thought, not without affection.

"My grandmother was known for her style and class, Malfoy," Blaise smiled, looking very smug and satisfied at having bested Draco at something.

Draco pouted a little, but couldn't hide his joy. Always the one wanting to try things his more daring ancestors could have done, and most certainly had, especially those that combined old traditions and old traditional depravity.

A couple of hours later the procurer of gifts had passed out on the bed in Draco's room and hardly even stirred when they left.

"Lemmebe, lemmesleep," Blaise grunted and pulled up the covers. Secretly she imagined that Blaise was trying to stay in Draco's bed. Not that she mentioned it to Draco, minor irritations like Blaise could be dealt with later; she had more important things to do right then. Like splashing around in steaming hot water and feel skin gliding over skin without resistance or friction. Feeling his hair painting wet streaks over her body, lips closing around nipples, wet mouths and wetter tongues wrestling for dominance. He shivered when she dived under and let her tongue roll over stretched skin and pulsing veins. Hands sliding over thighs and touching hair and creases of skin that feels uncommonly coarse, like all nerves in the fingertips had become unbearably sensitive. When she enclosed her lips over the velvety soft tip of his erection he fell into the deep with a splash and came up coughing in a fit of laughter. She smiled and sighed when he pushed her backwards and buried his fingers deep inside her. Delighted laughter echoed in the tiled room until she quieted him with her lips.

He had been in a terrifyingly good mood ever since he beat Potter to the Snitch in the first Quidditch game of the season, a couple of days earlier, and at this point, she was not complaining.

She felt weightless when he moved her to straddle his lap. Her head fell back in abandon and his lips were on her neck. She looked straight into his eyes when she slowly sank down on his erection and shivered in delight as he filled her. The grey eyes darkened to dusk and made her feel entirely desirable and complete in ways she never will let him know.

The door to the bathroom opened suddenly. She was facing the other wall and couldn't see who just walked in, but the grip of his fingers hardened on her waist and she could feel his cock twitch inside her.

"Well, what in the world are you doing here? Shouldn't you be in bed at this time of night?" Draco said in an overly polite tone. She could feel him tensing up, fighting to stay in control, keeping his voice level. It would, in fact, be quite an admirable feat, had it been anyone else than Draco.

He was moving his left hand under the water, down between their bodies. She gasped when she could feel his fingers parting her, rubbing intently at slick almost-hurting folds of flesh. She pinched him but that only made him go faster like he wanted her to lose it while someone else watched. She tightened her muscles rhythmically around him. He jumped a little, but at least he held back his onslaught a bit. She turned her head towards the door, anything to keep her mind from the tingling feeling spreading throughout her limbs.

"Uh…I…uh…" Harry Potter was standing by the door; bag in hand, dressed in wrinkled flannel pyjamas that once might have been blue, looking just as bewildered as he sounded.

"I do think I was here first," Draco said. "And from what I know, you're not a Prefect. You shouldn't be here at all."

"And you shouldn't be out after curfew either, Malfoy." She felt Draco stiffen a little more; his breath hitched and two red spots blossomed on each side of his neck. His small hand movements under the water intensified once again. She cursed him silently.

"I hardly think that is any of your business. And you're staring. Do you mind?"

"Uh..." Potter blushed, but he didn't look away. He just stared with an open mouth at the couple, like he hadn't realized that they were naked and what they really were doing under the water until that moment.

"Potter, sod off." There was a hint of laughter in Draco's voice. "Stop ogling Pansy's tits and leave," Draco said, "if you please." Potter shifted uncomfortably and looked hurriedly down at his feet.

"Or did you somehow think that you could join us," Draco continued, "well, we're a little exhausted right now so I don't think we can comply with your wishes. At least I know I am, what about you Pansy? Fancy a little slumming?" She laughed. Potter blushed even more, mumbled something inaudible and backed out of the room.

But that was two weeks ago. This is now. When the dance is over she leaves Terry and walks back to the table where the other Slytherin girls were sitting. His eyes still follow her. Suddenly she changes her mind, turns around and walks up to him. Watching him cringe a little like he thinks she is going to slap him for the audacity of looking at her. Or possibly say something insulting. Some of the Gryffindor twits sitting at the nearest table look really annoyed, others are exchanging smug smiles like they are sure whatever she is going to do, she will be severely snubbed and cut down to size for even trying to talk to him.

"Care to dance?" she asks. His chin drops. The smug smiles of the girls listening, change into evil glares and hanging mouths when he just nods and follows her to the dance floor. Some shake their heads in disbelief, they probably think she has put some evil Slytherin spell on him.

The music starts up again, hard drumbeats fills the room, almost shaking the old stones, reverberating in the bones of the people dancing. She ponders what flew into her when she approached him. Maybe it was something calculating and disconcerting in his gaze. Something fiery and harsh that unnerves her more than she cares to admit. As more and more people fill up the floor they get pushed and constantly bump into each other, inadvertently touching. He gives her a little relieved smile as if he was reassured she had no ulterior motives in asking him to dance, no poisoned daggers hidden in her sleeves. When the tune changes to a slower one he just grabs her and continues. They are still squashed together in the middle of the crowd.

She hadn't really noticed that he had grown so tall. Draco is still a few inches shorter than her, but she's quite tall for a girl. Potter is maybe half a head taller. He has discarded his robes and wears only a t-shirt that felt moist under her palms. Bare arms are touching hers, skin soft and warm. She squiggles a little closer just to see what he will do. His gaze is straying down the rather low neckline of her form-fitting shirt. She notices but doesn't think there is much too see. She neither voluptuous like Daphne or beautiful and exotic like Padma and Parvati. Her claim of a powerful family name, old blood and even older connections has no worth with him and his kind. Except one. And that connection is the only reason he looks at her like this. Let's see how much that recent loss affected you, Potter, she thinks. Connections are hard currency in games of power and now she's got something to trade.

His breath flows hot against her ear and she wiggles a little closer. And feels something hard prodding her hip that definitely isn't a wand. She rubs a little against it. He stiffens visibly and when she looks at him he blushes and tries to move away. But she doesn't let him. Instead, she gives him her best adoring smile, the one that tells him I know you like this and I don't mind. She has no reason to be shy with him. She doesn't want him to declare his undying love. She just wants to excite him, to appeal to his lower instincts. Mainly to the one prodding her hip. He stares wide-eyed at her.

"What do you want?" she whispers in his ear and rubs a little more against him.

"Ack!" he gasps. And jerk backwards. He's staring at her as she had just sprouted another head.

He looks annoyed and ashamed. Well, fuck annoyed, she thinks. There is something else in his eyes, daring her, challenging her to act on this impulse. Something hard, vengeful, and ruthless. Something that makes her insides melt and bubble-like lava.

Haughty and proud won't work with him. He does not revere; he wants to conquer. And she will let him. At least he will think so.

"Why would I want to do anything with you?" he says. His eyes tell her something else. She lifts her hand to slap him. But he grabs her wrist before it connects with his face. His grip is hard and firm. She stares back.

"Yes, why don't you tell me," she leans forward and whispers into his ear. "You say you don't want anything from me, but your body seems to be of a different opinion." He looks down.

"Well, will your boyfriend want to kill me?" He whispers back.  
"Probably." She looks back at him.  
"What did Malfoy do to you?"  
"What?"  
"That you want to punish him like this."  
"What's it to you?"  
"Nothing. I'm just curious."  
"It's none of your business. I'm not going to tell him. He doesn't need to know."  
"But you will know. And so will I."  
"Right. That's the point."  
"Give me five minutes. West corridor."

She nods. By Lilith, what am I doing? she thinks. Getting my own back, she replies. Revenge for all those petty wounds, revenge by grand betrayal. I'll do it, she thinks, and I will enjoy it. For all those times he hurt her, deliberately or not, just because Draco does whatever he wants. But he cannot control this.

Potter is leaving the room but gets waylaid by some Gryffindors on the way out. That gives her time to disappear quietly.

She's standing in the dark corridor, leaning against the wall when he walks by.  
Then she steps out in front of him, reaching up and touches his hair. Her hand is gliding over his cheek, to the nape of his neck and under the collar of his t-shirt.

He's not leaving, stepping back or moving. He just stands there, looking at her, calculating, evaluating. She takes a step towards him until their bodies are flush against each other. The heat radiating from his body has nothing to do with hours of dancing in a small crowded room and everything to do with what is straining against his worn blue jeans.

"Today is your lucky day," she whispers, "just tell me what you want." And sneaks her hand down between them and cups the bulge she felt growing in his trousers. The worn fabric is soft like velvet. What's underneath is not. Another gasp.

"What?" he says breathlessly, "what do you mean?"

"You know what I mean," she breathes into his ear. "I won't tell anyone," she whispers and let the tip of her tongue touch the side of his neck. He grips her arm so hard she thinks he is going to break it.

"What are you playing at?" he says.

"I'm trying to seduce you, if you hadn't noticed."

"I'm not buying this."

"Think whatever you want, this is a one time offer only, Potter, and don't tell me you don't want to." Her hand is firmly lodged between his legs rubbing out resistance as quickly as a whiff from a bottle of Mrs Skower's All-Purpose Magical Mess Remover.

"Uh," he says and looks nervously at her, "then I won't."

"Okay, what's stopping you?"

"Oh," he says and takes a deep breath, "not out here."

"In here then." She opens the door she had been leaning against, dragging him with her into a small room were grey light seeps in from a small window high up. It is a broom closet, tiny and cramped, with the lingering earthy smells of moulding cloth and sharp ammonia of detergent.

She is crushed between hard stone and a cloth-covered moist chest. He towers over her, hands on each side of her head. She can feel him breathing in her face. Strands of his hair tickle her cheek. They stand silent. Heat is radiating between their bodies. And the tension is almost palpable.

"What do you want," he asks in a hoarse voice.

"Whatever you want," she answers, "as long as you kiss me right now."

He pushes her against the wall. Lips, tongue, teeth, more lips, more tongue. Not a bad kisser, she thinks, he has at least done this before.

She puts her hand tentatively on his waist, under the damp cloth, touching his chest, his stomach, down to his navel and the thin line of hair below. His breath hitches.

"Are you sure," he whispers.

"Quite." Her hand slides down to his belt. When her nail scrapes the bare skin underneath the belt he whimpers a little. He tries to hide it and kisses her again. He's got one hand beside her head and the other on her waist.

"Oh god, oh god, oh god," he pants in her ear when her hand disappears into his trousers. He's holding in his stomach like he wants to give her better access, but she doesn't think he's doing it deliberately.

"Do you like this," she asks. Not that she doesn't know the answer to that question already. So she just kisses him again, unbuckles his belt and pushes the jeans and shorts down. He tries his best to get his hands under her shirt, reaching for her breasts, touching, squeezing, a bit too hard. Clumsy. She grabs his wrists. He stiffens for a moment until he understands that she doesn't want him to stop, only to coordinate his efforts. She has to remove her own pants, when she tries to make him do it he stops.

"Oh no I cannot," he says.

"Why not?"

"I…I…"

"Come on. Sure you can, don't you want to?"

"Yes."

"Yes, what?"

His skin has a bluish-white tone in the grey light, dark hair hanging down in his face. She takes off his glasses and puts them on the low shelf behind her. They clatter to the floor when she jumps up to sit on the shelf, one foot on the back of his thigh. Then she puts her hands on his shoulders and draws him towards her.

"Fuck me," she says. For a second he looks scared and she doesn't know if he will bolt out the door and disappear. He nearly topples over and takes a deep breath.

"Okay." His voice is shaking a little and his hands slide tentatively, almost reverent over her skin.

"You've never done this before, have you?" she asks.

"Does it show that much?" His voice sounds raw. He's embarrassed. She puts her hand on his cheek.

"No," she lies, "and I don't mind," she adds. And she really doesn't. She really isn't used to gentleness and boys who doesn't think that their right to do whatever they want.

Her shirt is bunched up under her arms, her skirt is somewhere around her waist and her pants on the floor. As are his jeans and boxers. His fingers are buried inside her and his tongue in her mouth. Calloused fingers and badly cut nails scraping her insides, hurting a little. It doesn't matter. Her pleasure doesn't matter as this point. His pleasure does. She reaches for his erection, grabs him, not too gently. But if she knows anything it is how boys want to be touched. Not to gentle, thumb over the soft head, stroke the vein on the underside, touch his balls, press a finger behind them and, easy as a b c, he's panting his way past the point of no regret. She would laugh at the easiness of it all, if all this hadn't made her tingly and melting and really, really wanting him to fuck her as hard as he is able.

He's shaking when she wraps her legs around him. His hands are on her buttocks, grabbing, hard and roaming all over her back. She flinches when he tries to position himself at a place where she doesn't want to be touched. Not now, not by him. She's a little shocked. Not a thing she imagined virgin Gryffindor boys would think about. She had never imagined him to think like a Slytherin, where most take that route long before the usual since some old families still believe that girls should have their hymen intact when they marry. Perhaps that is why Slytherins are far less particular about what gender they take to bed, she muses.

"What's the matter? I thought it was what Slytherin girls wanted? Don't you let him do that?"

"What Draco and I do or don't, doesn't concern you, Potter."

"I think you let him do that," he laughs and kisses her. "Maybe you like the Gryffindor way better." The truth is that Draco does whatever he fancies since whatever he wants is approved and even encouraged by the families. She still remembers the crushing embarrassment last summer when her Grandfather toasted her at the dining table and told everyone that she finally had let the Malfoy heir mount her. Like they were horses. Or a breeding experiment. Which probably is far closer to the truth than she likes to admit. But fidelity isn't a valued virtue in the Malfoy code of honour. She's determined to do whatever she likes as well, betrothed or not. And it's none of Draco's business what she chooses to do with his arch-rival right now. It's none of his business that she likes it, far more than she will admit to Potter himself.

Her legs are wrapped around his waist and she can feel his sharp hip bones pressing into her thighs as he pushes all the way in.

"Alright?" he says.

"Never better," she says. "You don't have to be gentle, I won't break."

"I guess you've practised enough with Malfoy," he laughs and starts to move.

"I'm not a slut, Potter. No more than you anyway. Would you rather have him up against a wall?" she whispers in his ear.

"Not like this. I want you."

"Because I'm his?"

"Because I cannot think of anything I could do that would piss him off more."

"At least you're honest, Potter"

"I have no reason to be dishonest with you. And I've thought about you since I saw you in the bathroom together."

"About me? Have you thought about Draco fucking me while you were touching yourself?"

"Wha..NO!" She can almost feel him blushing. She laughs. Not unkindly.

"Come on Potter, you can tell me. It's your cock inside me now."

"Yesss...Goddamnit Pansy, yes I have, repeatedly, wondering how it would feel to be inside you. Satisfied?"

"You have no idea how good you make me feel right now."

"Why do you want me?"

"Revenge, Potter, revenge. And I don't think you're quite the nice person everyone else thinks you are. And I like what you're doing right now."

"Who is he fucking tonight?"

"No one. He's at home."

"No one except his father then?"

"Don't even joke about it, Potter. No. It was Blaise. Last Sunday. Who will regret it." She regrets that statement immediately. To give out information freely like this isn't like her.

"You're just using me?"

"And don't you like it?"

"Yes. I. Do." She grabs the hem of his shirt and draws it over his head. He lets go of her for a second so she can remove it.

"I want to feel your skin," she says. He licks her neck.

He moves faster, pushes into her, panting and sighing, conversation lost in sighs, kisses, wet sounds and wet kisses and his body moving against hers. His cock moving inside her, filling her. She can feel every inch of it inside her, making her squirm and squeal. Forbidden fruit always tastes better, her aunt said once. Her aunt was, of course, talking about the illicit affair she had with the Astronomy teacher in her sixth year, but now she knows exactly how true it is. Fucking Harry Potter in a broom closet is about as forbidden as it could be, at least to a Slytherin girl with duties and loyalties to his worst antagonist.

Rough stone rubs against her back. She will have marks all over after this. Not that she cares. Draco will never see them, and never know what she has done. That she has conquered Potter in a way he can't. And even if he should beat Potter at Quidditch every day or fuck him in every broom closet at Hogwarts, at least she and Potter will know she did it before him.

When he comes she looks at him. His eyes are closed. But he suddenly opens them and gives her that surprised look that tells her he is completely out of control. Nothing else makes her feel this powerful. Of course, it's an illusion. One that only lasts a couple of seconds, but if there is one thing she has learned it's that you have to grab whatever sense of empowerment you can get.

When it's over he slips out of her and she can feel his wet lips and moist breath against her neck. They say nothing, just hold each other for a while. There are no terms of endearment exchanged between then. He looks a little ashamed and guilty. She smiles and touches his cheek. He puts his hand over hers.

"Pansy," is the only thing he says as she wriggles out from under him and starts looking for her pants. She doesn't answer.

When she stands up something wet runs down her leg.

"Oh, shit," she says.

"What?" he says.

She sees a white piece of clothing on the floor, takes it and wipes herself clean.

"Hey," he says, "Those are my boxers."

"There is nothing on them that doesn't belong to you," she says.

"Thank you ever so much." Sarcasm. Well, what do you know?

"Oh Potter," she says, "think of it like this, if we had been in a bed, you had been sleeping on the wet spot."

She cannot see his face, but she can hear him chuckle.

When she's dressed she shakes out her hair, licks her lips and hopes no one will realise she has lost her clip.

"See you," she says, pecks him on the cheek and leaves. She can feel his eyes on her back as she walks down the empty corridor.


End file.
